


I Think I've Lost My Headache

by Rinna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, post stag night makeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinna/pseuds/Rinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I have a favour to ask," John says, and Sherlock almost can't hear him. John is staring at him, and now Sherlock can feel his hand, hot and damp, resting on his knee, fingers hooked ever so slightly into the fabric of his trousers.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think I've Lost My Headache

**Author's Note:**

> I found fic, you guys! I literally found this by sitting on my notebook.  
> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated as always.

It hits him when he's hoped to avoid it the most - the thought that has kept him awake many nights ever since him and John have gone back to being... Well, whatever it is they are now.  
Not flatmates, not just colleagues either, not 'the detective and the blogger'.  
None of it sounds right, not any more.  
What does sound just about perfect are the words 'best friend', used like the most natural thing in the world. Who would have thought that two little words could posses the power to make a feeling of warm satisfaction settle in Sherlock's gut, filling a hole he never knew has been there in the first place.  
Attachment is dangerous if Mycroft is to believed, and Sherlock knows for certain his brother believes it, too, disappointment having shaped him thus.  
He is right about normal people being a ghastly waste of time, but John... for all that John is ordinary, he certainly is extraordinary.  
He is what Sherlock wanted to come home to after two long years out in the dark, and while he expected to be forgiven eventually, this, now this exceeds what little hope he allowed himself to feel.  
John went on a pub crawl with him, him and no one else, as if a man wasn't supposed to do it any other way, he butchered Sherlock's carefully crafted plans and got him drunk, and now he's slouched he is slouched in his armchair opposite Sherlock, looking like he belongs there, like they haven't been apart for two years, as if none of it ever happened.

It's this situation, and the way John currently looks at him, that make these thoughts come back to Sherlock, and he can be honest, at least to himself. He needs John.  
This is a new feeling, new in its intensity, and for all that he has no way to give a voice to it, to express it in any way that feels adequate, Sherlock is going to make sure John knows.

He cares about John, smiling at Sherlock as if there is nowhere else he's rather be, and there is certainly nowhere else Sherlock would rather see him.  
John's smile is languid, his posture relaxed, and oh, if that doesn't send an entirely different rush of warmth through Sherlock's body.

"I noticed," John says softly, the smile unwavering.  
"Those pubs. I recognised the street corners."

Sherlock wants to say something, anything to ensure John will keep looking at him like that, but he ends up just rumbling "...yeah," waving it off as if it all meant nothing.

"Let's play 'who am I'" John suddenly suggests and jumps up entirely too quickly, dizzying turning in circles for a moment before he is able to concentrate on finding the stack of post-its and a pen.

"You write down the name of a person for me to guess and I'll get us a drink," he slurs, throwing both the pen and the notes in the general direction of Sherlock's face, before swaying into the kitchen in search of beer.  
When nothing is to be found in the fridge besides a small animal's brain and a few corneas in a bowl, John nearly breaks his neck on his way down the stairs to borrow something off Mrs. Hudson.  
When he comes back upstairs Sherlock meets him in the door frame, takes the two newly acquired bottles of beer off him and smacks a note on his forehead with a breathy chuckle.

Rightfully exhausted from his trip downstairs John plops back into his chair.  
Sherlock goes into the kitchen to open the bottle with a lighter John is not supposed to know he still owns.  
He can hear John giggle to himself.

"What?" he rasps.

"You're never gonna guess this."

He doesn't, but that's more because throughout the game they forget more than a couple of times what they are actually doing.  
Sherlock gets lost again, in John's smile and the cosy atmosphere, and at first he doesn't even notice John's hand on his knee.

"I don't mind," John says lowly.

"You don't mind..." Sherlock repeats slowly. If he thinks about it long enough, he will surely come up with the rest of the conversation, but he keeps getting distracted by the way John keeps wetting his dry lips.  
He swallow thickly.

"I don't mind," Sherlock murmurs. It seems like a good thing to say.

"I have a favour to ask," John says, and Sherlock almost can't hear him. John is staring at him, and now Sherlock can feel his hand, hot and damp, resting on his knee, fingers hooked ever so slightly into the fabric of his trousers.

Sherlock hums. He doesn't feel like speaking, the air suddenly thick and heavy enough that he can feel it even through the fog that is his mind right now.

"I, I think..." John stutters, then stops, and while his gaze flickers away as if he is uncertain, his hand moves up Sherlock's thigh at the same time, and he is leaning forward in his chair.

They look at each other for a moment longer, and Sherlock exhales through his mouth as he tries to find a way to release the tension building up inside of him.

John's hand has reached his hip and is now leaning out of his chair and kneeling awkwardly between Sherlock's thighs so he can touch both his hips.  
Sherlock just keeps staring into his eyes, so open and fixated on his own. John's look is all askance and quiet uncertainty, and he is close, closer than he's ever been before.

In a desperate attempt to reassure him, Sherlock pulls at John's sides until he tips forward and their foreheads touch. John lets go of his hips to softly stroke Sherlock's hair before he lets his hands rest on the back of his neck.

"I would like you to kiss me," he breathes, and as soon as has finished the sentence, Sherlock closes the remaining distance between them.

Sherlock's blood reaches a boiling point at the soft sigh that escapes John as the first brush of their lips. Their lips are both slightly chapped, an unfortunate after effect of the alcohol, but searing hot.  
Sherlock wants, needs to feel more, and so he presses John flush against himself and lets his fingers trace down the other man's back.

They share languid open-mouthed kisses for a while, and Sherlock delights in the shivers each of John's small hums and gasps produces.

He nearly stiffens in surprise when he feels John's tongue sneak past his lips, drawing a startled moan from him that makes John press closer still.

They break apart only to fuse back together within the next breath, and from somewhere near the door Sherlock can hear Mrs. Hudson say "I'm sorry, but they seem slightly indisposed, my dear."

He needs to let go of John, now, or he knows he never will.  
He is already thinking about what John's neck might feel like under his lips, how satisfying is would be to suck a mark of ownership into his soft skin, how enticing to snap up his hips and...

Sherlock breaks their kiss abruptly.

He can hardly bear to look at John, breathing raggedly and looking positively ravished, but he wants to commit him to memory like this, the one precious moment when John was his.

Sherlock wants to ask him why, why now, why at all, but it doesn't really matter. The drink might have given both of them the courage, but the inclination has always been there, and that's all Sherlock needs to know.

He knows that John is as much his as he will ever be anyone else's, and Sherlock will always cherish their relationship that so obviously transcends descriptions.

Just for a tiny moment, Sherlock Holmes had it all.


End file.
